


In Vino Veritas ... or Whatever

by hannahrhen



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, M/M, Mostly Dialogue, Pre-Relationship, Snark, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately post-“I’ll have that drink now.” </p>
<p>Tony and Loki, on the steps, waiting for SHIELD to arrive. Tony guesses what “Norse god of mischief” means in American English (it isn’t nice). Gets angry about Phil (it’s about time). Is a dick (but also not). </p>
<p>Loki just ... bides his time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vino Veritas ... or Whatever

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen much fic that speculated on, literally, the moments after the team confronts a defeated Loki in the Tower. Imagine just enough time for Bruce to un-Hulk and find a bathrobe, basically, but not long enough for SHIELD to swarm the joint.
> 
> Yes, this *could* be gen (*gasp*). But I'll say more about the pre-relationship aspect as well as the inspiration for this story in the end notes.

“If it’s all the same to you … I’ll have that drink now.”

Tony grimaced: Trust this fucking jerk to grab the punchline after the trouble they’d taken to arrange themselves so dramatically, so _heroically_ in the penthouse. Tony would give him this, that the raised eyebrows and insolent request had broken the T-minus-five level of tension in the room, sorting the team members into the tasks they needed to do next.

Widow called into Fury on her comm while pointedly flanking Barton, who kept a resentful watch on Loki—the god crouched heavily on the low steps. Thor, bathrobe-clad Bruce, and Rogers commandeered a corner of the large room to discuss the logistics of transporting an immortal sorcerer—transporting him _unwillingly_ , mind you—cross-galaxy.

Tony stood awkwardly in the center of the space, not really feeling welcome with Barton and Natasha and not interested (yet) in whatever Thor was gesturing about with his frankly disturbing hand gestures.

Tony put his fists on his hips, turned one way toward Barton and Widow, twisted the other toward the _second_ sourpussed-if-more-emphatic-about-it group, and then back to Loki, who was staring beyond Tony through the window—well, staring ahead, anyway. Glassy-eyed. Probably not seeing anything at all, and fuck it if Tony didn’t know his signs of shock and/or PTSD.

_“Fuck it,_ ” he declared, startling absolutely no one. Returning to the bar, he poured himself Scotch from sense memory, and then took a long look at the blank figure on the steps while he considered his options. He reached for a can of ginger ale under the counter, then pulled the jar of maraschino cherries out of the minifridge tucked next to the sink.

After assembling the drinks impeccably, considering he was still clad, neck-down, as Iron Man, Tony made another “fuck it” decision. “JARVIS, would you—”

“Certainly, sir.”

The suit retracted away from his skin, leaving him in—he glanced down—”Oo! I forgot it was you,” he said to his Black Sabbath tee. Still in good shape, too, considering the whole near-death thing(s).

As Tony returned across the floor, Rogers finally noticed him. “Hey!” (And not too happy, by the sound of it. Surprise, surprise.) Tony turned dramatically, holding the drinks out carefully at his sides while he bowed in acknowledgment.

Rogers frowned—a look Tony was getting used to despite their (very) new mutual understanding. He pointed his chin at Tony’s left hand, and Tony didn’t even know chins could point, actually. Huh. Rogers’ mouth continued: “Is that really a good idea?” Thor looked puzzled—yeah, used to that now, too.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but most of my ideas? Pretty awesome. Even if they’re bad. So—yeah. You guys keep—” He wiggled one glass at them, jostling the ice. “—getting your Con Air flight plan in order, okay?” And damn if Thor’s big blond face didn’t relax a bit, soften—as he gave a tiny nod. Rogers didn’t relent with the Sam the Eagle glower, but he kept it bottled up—as much as Tony would ask for right now.

He continued to the steps, dropped himself gracelessly beside Loki, and not spilling a drop, thank you very much. _It’s a gift_. (He cursed himself for not being able to even think that without sounding like Sean Bean.) He pointedly did not make eye contact with Natasha and Barton. He could tell she was done with her report, and Barton had set himself up on the back of a heavy armchair in the far corner of the room, unwilling to set down his bow.

Fury would either arrive or send operatives for them—all of them—any minute now. He took a drink. So, opener … opener …

Ah, he had it: “Apparently ‘Norse god of mischief’ in English—and I’m talking about American English here, just to be clear—translates into ‘enormous asshole.’”

That pulled Loki’s attention from the thousand-yard stare he was honing. Not a response, yet, but … a single look. The god leaned back a little on the step, turning his head and knitting his brow a bit. He also finally noticed that Tony had set the taller glass on the step between them.

Tony prepared his tone of “imparting great wisdom” that more than once ended with a punch. At least Barton had the bow. “No, listen, I’m just sayin’: Mischief implies—I dunno—a sense of humor, or something that, you know, more than _one fucking guy_ is going to find funny in a sick way.” He feigned thoughtfulness (he was very, very good at feigning thoughtfulness). “I guess it’s possible standards have gotten higher. I mean, you know, there’s a lot we don’t put up with these days. Because _your_ sense of humor? Here? Would get you heckled out of a comedy club amateur night. In Pittsburgh.”

Loki glanced down at the glass again, then back at Tony. “This is how you mean to torture me, then?” His eyes glittered, anger burning away the dull mask. “Weak spirits and insults until I’m returned? I’m already _quivering_.” 

Tony regarded him bluntly, the first time he’d gotten a good look at the other since … okay, the last time they were that close, Tony had a fifty-percent chance of being murdered. Hm, lower that to twenty-five—Tony was _awesome_ in life-or-death scenarios. “Honestly, I don’t know what they’re gonna do to you, Bevo. I’m not down with the torture, but … Yeah, I don’t know what they’re gonna do. From what your brother said—” Tony plowed through the grimace that inspired in the other. “—it sounds like you have more to worry about from your homecoming. _Princess._ ”

Loki huffed and rolled his eyes. Tony saw him turn his eyes toward Thor, followed the look. The group was whispering, trying to avoid Loki’s attention, obviously, though just as obviously not much concerned about it anymore, either. Thor was pointing toward his mouth, then holding his fingers up in a way that reminded Tony, somewhat creepily, of Hannibal Lecter. Bruce watched intently, absently rubbing his own fingers over his lips. Tony jerked his attention away just as Rogers’ eyes darted over.

Loki turned his attention back, too, and sighed the sigh of the enormously put-upon. Instead of addressing the matter at hand, though, he gestured toward the glass. “What is this?”

“Bourbon highball. Maker’s Mark, ginger ale, cherry. Too sweet for me with the ginger ale, but I know what you guys drink, and I thought it might be your thing.” Tony held up his glass. “Toast?”

He got a look of disbelief. “To what?” Loki’s tone was acid. “To _what_ , Iron Man?”

But Tony had his own bottled venom—and it was fucking vintage. “To Phil Coulson—who was a better man than you.” He caught the incipient scoff in Loki’s face. “Okay, let me rephrase, before you pull that ‘I’m a god’ bullshit: He was just better than you, in whatever category you put yourself in. He wins every prize.” Offered his own grim smile. “Clear enough?”

Before Loki had a chance to pull back, Tony clicked the glasses together, harder than necessary, but, then again, not really. _Exactly_ as hard as necessary. “Drink up.”

He had to admit to a freakish curiosity on how the drink would be accepted, but Loki just threw back the first swallow, no hesitation. He did wrinkle his nose after, but that could be the bubbles. No thanks forthcoming, but … Yeah. Tony rubbed his eyes.

And, suddenly, he felt … peckish. His brilliant shawarma plan was looking a little too far on the horizon, if it even happened at all. God, he was hungry. Looking around, he spotted quarry—a bowl of nuts on the low coffee table on the other side of the sofa. He made eye contact with Natasha. “Hey, Widow—would you—” He waved his hand in the direction of the table. “The nuts? Could you—?” At the simultaneous what-the-fuck expressions from Barton and Natasha, he raised his eyebrows, offered a pinched smile. “What?! I’m hungry! And guarding the god of lies here, okay? _Kinda busy_.”

Natasha folded her arms across her chest, and Barton made to move the bow away from Loki’s direction, and straight to Tony. “ _Not funny, Hawk!_ ” he called. The bowl of nuts with their assassin escort finally made their way over to Tony, as he knew they would, complete with messy drop into his lap. He grabbed at a couple of still-shell-encased pistachios that threatened to roll out of reach.

“Hungry,” he said in Loki’s direction. “And I’m guessing feeding you is not going to be a huge priority for awhile, so—” He set the bowl between them, a couple of inches away from where the god’s fingers were braced against the floor.

“So.” Tony kept his eyes on Thor and the others, as he ripped into the pistachio shells. The increase in glances at their little kaffeeklatsch told him the big guys were either wrapping things up or getting uncomfortable with the buddy-buddy thing Tony had going on over here with a murderous psycho. He heard Loki crunch some of the nuts. “Okay, so—you got any idea what’s going to happen to you back home? What Daddy’s gonna do? Grounding? Keys to the chariot? Multicentury flaying?” He finally looked back at the other.

Loki was watching the melting cubes in the half-empty glass, a handful of cashews rolling under his thumb in his other palm. “He’s not my father, Stark.” It was the first time Loki had said his name—obviously he knew it, thanks to Barton’s psychic but-no-less-fucking-horrific trepanning, but he’d seemed to prefer insults and nicknames, something they—heh—had in common. “And I don’t know what he plans. Based on my own experience, his judgments are frequently unexpected. And usually creative.”

Neither description was complimentary, based on the tone. Tony let out a hard breath. “Still, from what I know about your … history—and it’s not much, I’ll give you that. Norse mythos wasn’t my thing and I’ve been a little occupied almost getting my ass killed repeatedly these last few days to hop on Wikipedia. _But_ … what I know about you … You always seem to bounce back.”

There—the first real smile. Kinda scary, yeah, but real. _There_ was the fucking god of mischief. Right there.

“That …,” he said slowly, “… That I do.” He dropped the cashews back into the bowl—bad etiquette, but Tony let it slide. Special circumstances.

“So, when you’re done with whatever House of a Thousand Corpses torture porn the old man concocts for you,” and, no, Tony couldn’t believe he was talking casually to a guy about his impending torture, thank you, but … fucking Phil, damn it. At least _that_ : fucking Phil. “When you’re done with that, then what?”

Loki was down to the dregs of his glass. He reached in and pulled at the cherry by its stem, looked over its glistening surface curiously before dropping it back inside. He looked back toward the window—obviously seeing it this time, from what Tony would tell. “Why in my own dear _brother’s_ name do you care, Stark?”

The million—no, _billion_ -dollar question. Tony found the window interesting enough to look out as well. Finally ventured an answer that was more honest than Loki probably deserved. “Because I was an asshole once, too, just … you know? I mean, don’t get me wrong. You’re a ninth-circle-of-hell asshole compared to the rest of us—we’re just in limbo, couldn’t even _hope_ to spelunk our way down to your level.” He shrugged. “But … I made some changes. I changed. … I’m _trying_ to change, is my point.”

“Congratulations.” The word rolled off Loki’s tongue like a serpent—yeah, Tony was starting to get the Lecter thing Thor had been pantomiming. “And what does that have to do with me?”

A shrug. “Just … If you ever have a change of … whatever you have in your chest, because I’m not sure it’s actually a heart. But if it ever changes its mind and decides you’re done being the Gozer the Gozarian-sized asshole you are … If you ever want to do something different. You know, be the god of capital-M Mischief, babe, not just some whiny jerk ranting about his family bullshit in a crappy amateur hour … and, you know, if it’s actually in my lifetime—which is kind of disturbing to think about, something not ‘in my lifetime’—but _if it is_ , maybe come talk to me, okay?”

Tony was collecting “what the fuck” looks like Pokemon today, apparently.

“You’re— Did you—” Loki stopped, schooled his expression. “Did you just call me ‘babe?’”

“Time to go.” It was Rogers, unsurprisingly, with Thor at his back. “Fury’s got cars downstairs. They’ll take us to an airstrip where it’s safe to get back on the helicarrier.” He glanced at Loki, quickly assessing, then back to Tony. “And Thor’s got some ideas for getting _him_ safely back to his own world.” The chin point again. Huh.

Then Tony saw the look that passed between Loki and his—brother, nemesis, whatever the hell was going on there. For a second—a fraction of—he felt sorry for Thor _and_ for Loki. Then he thought about Phil and the others who had lost their lives, the months of rebuilding ahead, and he said …

Yeah. “Fuck it. Not my problem.” He looked at Loki, started to push himself up. “See you around, I guess.”

The god’s only answer: “Perhaps.” It … wasn’t a threat. And Tony wouldn’t admit it to any of these mouth-breathers, but … _but_ …

Whatever was insinuated there _instead_ made Tony take a single look back as Loki was led away.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so--having watched Avengers on video, like, 30 times, there is nothing I want more than to know exactly what happens after Loki asks for the drink. (insert long ramble about Loki's powers to teleport, or not, and whether the Avengers are actually concerned about him escaping, since--he doesn't, and doesn't seem able to? I dunno) 
> 
> As someone particularly guilty of softening Loki and asking Tony to overlook the whole killing-Phil thing (as well as, geez, the thing with the scientist and the countless other deaths), I wanted to write something that put forth *some* realistic (semi-realistic) theory about why Tony would have not just called for JARVIS and run screaming--or grabbed a big-ass weapon--as soon as Loki showed up post-movie. Ultimately, there's a pathetic guy sitting there, he's still Thor's brother (FWIW), and ... Tony gets bored easily. I can totally make it my head canon that he thinks Loki is as close to a monster as he's seen, but he's willing to talk to him anyway--try to make some small difference. Or just because Tony is *bored*.
> 
> Re: this being pre-relationship: Yeah, I wouldn't have written this if it were gen, because ... I don't do gen. :-) In my mind, if I deleted "Create a Diversion," this could be an alternate prequel to "I am Ice and Dust and Light" or even the "Sex Magic" series. But I don't want to complicate those two scenarios any more than they are, so ...
> 
> Standalone it is!
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading! You can find me publicly hand-wringing over my writing, or fangirling over other people's, on Tumblr: [http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com/](http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com)


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